Simon Ghost Riley X Reader - Tumblr Posts

Toxic!Simon

heavy heart

pretend

doubt

you've had enough pt1 | pt2

cherish

closer to the edge

he comes back

Hey babe….Just putting this out into the charniverse. That lil side descriptor you put in the ghost fic about him licking reader to tears. If you ever wanna uh….give us a clearer picture of that —I’m sure the class would have absolutely No complaints 👉👈

A/N: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader. Hurt/Comfort. Soap is nosy. This became something else.

When they find Red, Ghost's back goes rigid. Soap has never seen his Lieutenant freeze when they’re in the field. It’s mid-mission. Time is ticking. 

But shit’s gone south. 

Even without seeing Ghost’s face, it’s apparent that her distress has rocked him with the same force as a bullet. He appears momentarily stunned as he stares down at Red. She's in shock, clamping her hands over her belly where blood has drenched the stiff fabric of her suit. Sweat beads her hairline. Utter agony carved into her features. They’d heard her over the coms. She’d been attacked by a leftover hostile. She’d screamed, and Ghost hadn’t hesitated. He'd run.

“Simon,” she whimpers, and he jerks before bolting forward. His giant black boots reverberate over the cement as he swings his gun behind him so he can tend to her. The enormous man crouches low, knees popping. 

“You’re alright,” Ghost says in a low coaxing voice. He gently pulls her wrist away from the growing dark stain. She whines, wrenching her hand back to her belly, desperate to stem the blood flow. “Duchess,” he murmurs. “Let me see it.”

“It’s bad,” she whispers. “Ghost - it’s-it’s not good.”

“Let me look at it,” he urges. “I can’t help you if I don’t know.”

Red grimaces, and Soap understands. She doesn’t want to see it because then the pain becomes real, the direness of her situation. Finally, Ghost manages to move her hand, but he doesn’t release it. He clutches it possessively in his huge fist, thumb stroking her skin at a slow, even pace.

What. That’s slightly intimate. A touch tender.

Soap sees his shoulders subtly tense once the wound is revealed to him. “We’ll have to deal with it at the safehouse while we wait for Medevac.” Ghost’s voice is perfectly calm, a little strained. He’s trying not to frighten her even though the floor is tacky with her blood. Soap isn’t sure if he should help or retreat, he feels like his participation may pop some bubble that’s holding Red together. She seems comforted by Ghost’s presence.

The masked man brushes his thumb over her cheek, and she leans into it. 

“I killed the guy.”

“I know you did, kid,” he says softly, a hint of amusement under his tongue. 

Soap blinks. It falls into place. All of it. Ghost and Red Fox. Something is rooting them together, blossoming bright in front of him. Ghost is handling her with a gentleness that Soap didn’t know he possessed. It’s not because she’s a woman, it’s because she’s important.

This isn't new. He's seen this before.

He recounts the numerous times he’s noticed his superior act differently regarding her. It’s nothing blatant, but it’s there. Well hidden because of his mask. You can only hear it in the inflection Ghost’s uses when he calls her name, the way he inhales sharply when she stumbles or goes silent over the coms.

Hiding in plain sight.

Soap clears his throat, and Ghost flinches as if he’d forgotten anyone else was in the room. He lurches forward, hand on his gun, and secures Red behind him before he realizes it’s Soap. “The target, L.T.?”

Ghost curses and then shakes his head. “Gaz,” he barks into the coms. “What’s your position? You got eyes?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Finish it.”

“I feel weird,” Red Fox slurs, and she looks terrible. Sunken-in. There’s a grayness sticking to her complexion. She reaches for Ghost, fingers trembling as she wraps them around the straps of his vest. “Ss’cold.”

Soap isn’t sure what to do. Everything is hanging in the air. Pulsing. Alive. There’s the distinct pop of a gunshot through the coms. Mission Accomplished. 

“Alright, Red,” Ghost says, sliding his arms under her as he slowly lifts. “Up.”

Her mouth drops open, her brows knitted together from the pain. Soap offers her an empathetic look and awkwardly pats her knee from where she lies in Ghost’s hold. “You’re good, Foxy,” he smiles. “Just a scratch, yeah?”

Ghost grunts before cradling her to his chest, his mask blank. A stain of white in the dark aside from a splatter of red across the teeth. 

Soap reads him quite well. Don’t get in my way.  

***

“You gotta stay still,” Ghost demands in a low voice. “You’ve got this. You’re strong as all hell.”

“JESUS. FUCK.” 

“I need to clean it, kid,” he says, frustration building. “That was a dirty fucking knife.”

There’s another painful groan from the bed where Ghost is frantically hovering over Red like a nursemaid. The wound is gruesome. She’d been stabbed, and then the blade wrenched upward. Even Vargas had blanched at the sight of it. The flesh torn and bruised from the force used by her attacker. 

Soap waits outside the door to offer assistance if Ghost needs it. The Luitenant has remained strangely protective, not wanting too many in the room.

“Ow!” Ghost hisses. “That was my bloody eye.”

Red whimpers again before Ghost, seemingly forgetting that she’s just struck him, immediately begins to comfort her. Soap can hear it in her voice. The suffering is palpable. Her breath hitches before a sob breaks free. 

“Ah, shit,” Ghost says. “C’mon, no tears.”

“It fucking hurts,” she practically screams as something hard crashes to the floor. Soap thinks it may have been the lamp at her bedside. 

“I know,” he replies, and Soap discerns the distress in his tone. Ghost is scared, miserable that she’s miserable. “I know, darling.”

Darling. 

It seems to work like a balm. She hiccups, throat thick and wet before she says something Soap can’t make out. Ghost responds in an equally quiet voice. A soft murmur before he chuckles. 

Chuckles! 

Ghost is saying something again. The chair creaks on the floor, the man’s massive weight shifting forward. Curiosity gets the better of him, and Soap peeks through the doorway. 

He can only see Ghost from behind. He’s hunched over her, blanketing her with his body. He’s got a knee between her legs, one hand braced on the mattress. He’s doing something to her face. Soap can’t help himself, he takes a step to the left until he’s able to catch that Ghost has lifted his mask a few inches, forehead shoved against her own. He cradles her jaw and kisses Red like he’s lost the plot. She stiffens before her fingers curl around his neck and sighs like he’s doused her in cool water. 

Ghost retreats, cocking his head to appraise her before claiming her lips again and then dragging his tongue up her cheek, licking her tears in a way that borders on erotic. She groans and pushes at his massive chest. 

“Oh God, Simon.”

Ghost snatches one of her hands to slide his mouth over it. She shudders and then flinches, expression screwed up in pain, but her eyes are clearer. Her lashes clumped with tears. “You’re so weird,” she accuses in a tiny voice.

“Distracted you, though, didn’t I?” He draws away, pulling his mask back over his chin. “You enjoyed it a little.”

“I’m dying of blood loss.”

“You aren’t.” Ghost grabs the saline solution and cotton pads. “You gonna be a big girl and stop wriggling?”

“Get Soap,” she says. “He can hold me down.”

Soap shoots backward, soundlessly jamming himself against the hallway wall. 

“You’re just askin’ for it now,” Ghost growls before the chair squeaks as his enormous weight drops into the seat. There’s another moment of silence, aside from him unwrapping the gauze and unscrewing the cap on the solution. 

Soap should retreat. He should leave right now, but then Ghost speaks again.

“You can’t do that to me,” he says in a low voice. 

“I stayed alive, right?” she replies. “It’s the job, Simon.”

“Stay alive harder next time.”

There’s a beat of silence before Red answers.

Her voice is full of tenderness, and the words get lost in it. Indiscernible. Soap tiptoes away, suddenly mindful that he’s eavesdropping on something not meant for him.

tranquility - simon “ghost” riley x medic!reader

summary: simon finds comfort with you, and he’s finally decided to show it. fluff/hint of angst

No matter what anyone who knew either of you would say, your relationship with the lieutenant was one not for the faint of heart. That is purely in the sense that it is incomprehensible, and no one would ever dare have the courage to question it with either one of you. Especially not with Ghost, he was stubborn enough as it was without the endless insights on his private life.

Keep reading

Thoughts on “you couldn’t care less” “oh, I could” and “once I start I can’t stop” (especially for a big guy like ghost) together or separate both wreck me

A/N: Ghost x F!Reader (Red Fox). Trauma. Mentions of torture.

She throws it at him, spits it like a feral cat. “You couldn’t care less, Simon.”

He gapes at her, blood encrusted in the folds of his suit. Corpses littering the floor. “I couldn’t care less?” he echoes, tone stained with incredulity.

As if the evidence of his care isn’t at their feet.

She turns away from him, staggers slightly to the side before righting herself. She’s wounded and she won’t let him touch her. A pretty bird with a broken wing. His fury rages anew. It builds like a brushfire, and he wants another neck to twist. They had hurt her, and they had paid the price.

“What has two legs and bleeds?” she rasped, raising finger guns and pretending to shoot. She was slumped against the cement wall, crimson spit pooling to the floor.

“Red,” he growled, stepping forward with the keys to her cell door. The relief in his voice was muddied by his fear. Irritation was always his backup. “Not the time.”

“It’s me,” she murmured, exhausted and fragile and half out of her mind. “I think they hit a lung.”

It’s whiplash. Her joking to her shutting him out? She’s galloping toward hysterics, her fingers trembling as they loosely grasp the handle of the gun he had shoved into her hand. Fox had been ambushed and taken as a hostage. It was Ghost who had run after her, not caring that Price had firmly told him no - you're compromised in this particular situation.

“I just...” Ghost begins before trailing off.

He just what? Murdered a whole room of people that he was supposed to keep alive, but they had attacked Red, and he wasn’t capable of playing nice. Not when it came to her. “They tortured you,” he offers lamely. It’s the truth. He knows all about torture. It’s the mental shit that’s the worst, being used and shoved to the bottom of the barrel until there’s no light left.

“You jeopardized the mission,” she argues as she kicks one of the guards’ heads to the side. It’s limp, a water balloon filled with clay. She stumbles again and Ghost shoots forward, arm winding around her waist to hold her steady. “They’re all gonna blame me.” She places her palm on his tac vest, spreads her fingers. “I got caught. You killed them all. Fuck." She sounds resigned and bitter.

“I did,” he replies flatly. “My decision.”

Her lip trembles, her teeth clicking in her mouth as they start to chatter. A box of jumbled bones. She’s going cold and Ghost realizes that she’s in shock and perhaps that is why she’s making zero sense.

“You couldn’t care less because-because you shouldn’t care like this,” she tries to explain. “They’re gonna say you did it for me and I was weak and caught and forced your hand-”

“I did do it for you,” he replies simply, picking her up into his arms. Price is barking something into his earpiece and Ghost knows he’s going to get hell; he may even be put on leave for what he did. “They can say whatever they want.”

“No,” she protests, pushing away from him, but she’s so frail that it barely registers. A butterfly landing on his shoulder. She chokes on a sob and starts to cry and if that doesn’t kill Ghost, he’s not sure what will.

He bites his tongue, attempting to control himself from reacting. Her frustration, her tears, distress him and if she could see the expression behind his mask, she’d understand. Of course, I bloody did it for you.

However, she needs his kindness now. She needs to bash herself against him until she can no longer hold her weight. Douse her anger. Douse her resentment at herself because surely this is about her. She's mad at him for risking his own reputation to save her life.

"Simon," she sputters, and his name plops out wet. Helpless. Her breasts hitch, her heart thumping fast - too fast.

“Hey...hey...easy there, duchess,” he soothes, dropping his brow until it’s fastened against her own. “Breathe with me. We got Evac coming.”

“But...it's not...”

“No more of that,” he hums before inhaling and exhaling at a slow, even rhythm. Her ear is firmly planted on his chest, and she curls her finger around one of the straps of his tac vest. She clings to it. Her hairline is beaded in cool sweat. Blood in the air. He swallows thickly as he feels her attempt to follow his pace. “That’s a girl. Just like that. Breathe. You’re safe.”

Ghost adjusting Red's parachute straps. Giving them a good, but unnecessary, tug, making her jolt forward into him slightly and her breath hitch. He loves the reactions he can pull from her and his voice is smug af as he tells her he's just checking, that he's being a good LT and keeping an eye on her safety. Red flipping him off because she knows he's full of shit and that he's absolutely smirking under that mask.

A/N: Simon Ghost Riley x F!Reader (Red Fox). Smut. Size difference.

She’s still incredibly sore between her legs. It pulses like a bruise and, fuck, it’s extremely uncomfortable because everything Ghost filled her with is now drying on her inner thighs. The straps of her parachute aren’t helping. They’re wedging her legs apart, too tight and shoved up against too many areas that don’t need to be chafed.

Don't you dare shower me off.

What do I get if I don't?

You'll have to be patient.

I need incentive.

You're bloody impossible, you know that?

Ghost steps into her line of vision, cocking his head as those dark eyes study her. He looms like a monolith - a fucking tower of glass and metal and he’s too big, way too fucking big, so big that he may have ripped something inside her.

She flips him off just because she can. 

He steps forward so that his chest bumps into hers and when she stumbles backward, his hand shoots out and grasps the straps of her parachute. He drags her back to him and she trips again. 

“Unsteady, are we?” he remarks in a low voice. 

She jabs him in the side, which does nothing because it’s all flesh and muscle. “I think you punctured an organ.”

He chuckles and it tastes rich. He smells like moss and shower gel and she can’t forget how he felt on top of her, the perfume of sweat in his hair and on his skin and how they slipped over eachother because they’d been fucking for hours. His grip under her knee, his immense strength shoving her legs back against her tits and folding her in half as he stared down between them, focusing right on where they were joined -

“Fuck...fuck...look at that...look at that pretty cunt stretch for me.”

He grasps the buckle to readjust them before pulling the strap too hard. She yelps, screwing her eyes shut as she breathes through the ache in her cunt. It throbs and pulses like a spasming heart in an open chest - thwap thwap thwap - and still she’s beginning to get wet, slick up at the sound of Ghost’s voice. 

“Sore?” he offers and the arrogance is audible. He gets off on making her so unsteady. “C’mon soldier, you were in perfect form earlier.”

“Hands on the headboard, Red,” he demanded as his hips snapped against her ass. The tip of his cock was punching up against the soft curve of her womb. He was hitting the center of her - deliberately on target. The mattress squeaked and the metal springs screeched something fierce and he’s had her on all fours for hour - hours - 

He slipped his hand between her legs and circled her clit with three of fingers. They were too thick, rubbing through her folds until her flesh becomes raw and swollen. That was all he had to do - stroke and slide his fingers into her as his cock drove forward repeatedly. He slapped her pussy, he fisted the fleshy cheek of her ass, spreading her open and spitting on his length already soaked in her juices. 

“Don’t push it,” she growls as she tries to breathe through the pain. It’s not unwanted. It’s just annoying now that they actually have to do drills. “I think you broke something inside me.”

He inhales sharply, one gloved knuckle rasping against her stomach. She can feel him through her clothes. “Is it bad?”

He sounds calm, but she still catches the inflection of concern beneath his gruffness. 

“It’s fine.” She leans into him so that her breasts brush his chest. “I’ll live. I’m a big girl, right?” She lowers her voice to something velvet. A seduction.

“You’re a big girl, Red,” Ghost growls into her hair as he fucks her. “You can handle it. I know you can.” He pins her wrist to the mattress before his hand slithers up and threads their fingers together.

He tips his head, pupils expanding. “You are,” he agrees a little hoarsely as he tightens her other strap. “Just lookin’ out for your safety, duchess.”

Bastard.

She pretends to stumble, and he instantly catches her by the waist like she knew he would. She lifts herself on tiptoes, her mouth grazing his jaw.

“Make it up to me later,” she whispers. Ghost swallows, his grip on her tightening. “Maybe, I can sit on your face again.”

Ghost squeezes her hips, pushes himself closer until they’re momentarily stuck together, intertwined. “If that’s what you need,” he replies tenderly. “Just trying to be a good lieutenant for my favorite-”

“What the fuck are you two doing?” Price barks and Ghost smoothly steps away from her. She’s so unsteady that she has to catch the wall to keep herself from falling. 

Truth be told, she feels as if she’s already jumped. She’s tumbling to earth and everything in her belly flips and it’s all butterflies. The throbbing between her legs is the only reminder that Ghost had been inside her to begin with. She stares at his blank mask, black eyes like a shark. Unbothered. Unmoved. 

It’s unfair. 

“Just checkin’ her chute,” Ghost explains.

“Just coppin’ a feel,” Soap interjects and Gaz muffles a laugh with the back of his hand. 

Ghost slowly turns his head to stare at the Scotsman who suddenly blanches. She can only imagine the iciness of Simon’s expression. He’s done it to her when she’s managed to royally piss him off. 

After a moment, she places the flat of her palm against Ghost’s massive shoulder blade and he relaxes, sighs. The tension is stripped to hot air. It’s too easy. She didn't expect him to react just the way she had intended.

She realizes that maybe Simon isn’t so unaffected by her presence. 

keep you close.

simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader summary: he's pretty sure he's in love with you. not that he'll admit it, acknowledge it. an: angst with fluff, mentions of injury, war-stuff, cheeky stabbings, just cod things. no smut. just feelings. cause I wanted flangst. word count: 3.6k

masterlist for ghost.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Ghost doesn’t think when his eyes land on you. 

He should. 

He knows he should. 

But he fires his gun all the same, not content with the sound each body makes when they fall to the floor. He wants them to fall harder, almost land and shatter. 

He wants them to hurt.

It’s all he thinks as he slides the metal edge along the throat of the last one. The one who is hissing at him in a language he doesn’t even care to translate. 

Ghost cares about one thing, and one thing only: getting that radio message out of his head. 

It’s an ambush. Do not proceed. Get out—

It has been on a loop since he heard it.

Your radio message. 

The one which made Soap shout, calling for you as the static and crackle came back. The sound which made his blood run cold. The one which made him charge across the base grab the person who confirmed the intel by the shoulder, and made them piss themselves. Accidentally, of course.

It had been Soap who suggested sweeping the place, but it hadn’t been far from his mind.

They found your radio stood on, crushed—likely by your own boot. You’d always been thorough—you also usually wiggled your way out of these situations, 

It’s how you’d earned the moniker Mouse to begin with. 

His eyes caught the dried blood, hoping it didn’t belong to you as his flashlight followed its path until his jaw locked, his muscles tensing. 

Your scrunchie. 

That ridiculous one you bought months ago. The one which you’d found hilarious, and he had found anything but. Black, with tiny ghosts on it, for Halloween. No other reason, you’d said with a smirk. Unless you want to borrow it, sir? 

It’s in his pocket now. 

Has been since he found it. 

As he lets the last man fall, he brushes the pocket with his hand before wiping the blood on his thigh, sheathing his knife.

Turning, nodding in the direction of the other men as they checked them as he moved across the room to you, sliding his gun behind his back, and dropping to his knees. 

We bring Mouse back. By any means necessary. 

He’s thankful you’re alive and breathing. Watching as your head tilts —trying to work out who it is. Cautiously, both for the fact he’s considering it and for the knowledge he could hurt you, his gloved hand slides up your cheek, watching you tense before he pulls down the blindfold with his fingers. 

One eye is swollen, horrid, and puffy. Something which makes him want to put extra holes in each of the men for it. But, he can’t take his eyes from the one of yours, which blinks, and stares at him, taking him in. 

“I’m undoin’ this cuff.” 

You swallow, nodding, trying to keep the eye fixed on him. The handcuff releases from your wrists as your arms drop weakly. 

It’s then he can see the bruises. 

The ones which have formed and the ones about too. 

How the colours vary in spots along your exposed arms, neck and cheeks. Dreading to think of how deep they go, how far they spread under your clothes. 

“Sir…” you whisper, his head moving closer. “You’re a piss poor listener.”

“Almost as bad as you, soldier.”

Cautiously, he moves closer, his knees hitting against your legs as his hand slowly brushes over your arm. 

He’s aware the others have their eyes trained on him, Soap giving orders, busying them. It doesn’t stop him from moving his arm around your shoulders, bringing you close until his chest is close to your side.

“Do you want me to close my eye, make it easier for you?” you cough—sounding like a deflated lung. “You seem the type to hate touching people.”

“Enough.” 

It comes out gruff, but he knows that you don’t take it that way. The side of your busted lip twitching as he pulls you over his lap. 

He’s pretty sure it’s the gentlest he’s ever been, even more so with someone. He doesn’t mean to press his forehead against the side of yours. But, he thought he’d lost you. 

The annoying girl who talked too much, who smiled and had no issues with personal space. Unless you were on the battlefield. Then, you were different—quiet, tactile, mouselike. You scurry, you don’t miss, with a gun, a knife or a computer. 

Ghost knew he was fucked before today. 

But, this confirms it. 

The sharp pang in his chest is a horrid, bitter reminder of how fucked he is—especially with how his heart skips a beat when your hand shakes as it brushes against his mask.

He should look away as he lifts you, breaking the stare he has with you, but you move closer, whispering for him—and him alone. “I knew-w you’d find me.” 

He tightens his jaw, feeling a lump in his throat as he gives a curt nod. “Always.” 

“Always,” you repeat softly, eyelashes fluttering, desperate to close.

“Hey, eyes on me,” he says, and you do your best. You hope he knows that. “Good girl.” 

You hear someone shout for a medic, but it’s not him. 

He’s saying very little, just letting his breath dance across your neck and cheek as he holds you to him.

+++

The next time he sees you, he's visiting you when you’re in recovery.

He’s heard from others you’re improving. Soap nudging him, ensuring he’s heard him—thinking he knows more than he does.

He does go, though. 

You’re smaller than him, but you look so much smaller in the bed. Your face finally regaining some colour, an expression not twisted up in pain. The bruises faded, eyes unswollen. 

It’s a welcomed sight after the last time he saw you.

He crosses the recovery room floor, the room slowly emptying around him. He was glad that the rest of the med bay was without patients. 

His chair squeaks with protest when he sits beside you, eyes glancing over your face, over your arms, checking and checking that everything is where it was supposed to be. 

You say nothing. 

He says nothing. 

He just sits, staring at you, letting his eyes roll over your face. You seem to let him, likely basking in the fact that you’re currently not being boiled alive by him. 

It’s nice. Quiet. 

It’s helping to drown out the whimpers and groans you’d been making all the way back here from your injury. 

Until the tension reaches such a height even if you can’t stomach it. 

“What you doing here, Lt?” 

“Ensuring you don’t act recklessly.” 

“I think I can behave for one night.”  

“Doubtful.” 

You play with the sheets on the bed, rolling them between your fingers as he watches you, knowing what’s coming before you’ve even opened your pretty little mouth. 

“I’d behave for you, if you asked.” 

Sometimes, your brashness even surprises him. 

“I have asked,” he says, stretching his leg out as he watches you smile. “You still disobey me.” 

You nuzzle down into your pillow, not taking your eyes off him. 

“Sleep, Mouse.” 

“With you watching me?” 

He clicks his tongue. “Sleep.” 

You smile softer, eyelashes looking heavy. “Okay.” 

Nodding, he interlocks his gloved fingers over his lap. 

+++

You’d been silent. 

Too silent. 

He knew how you got your Codename. He’d read your file, after all. You sneaked through impossible holes figuratively and literally. Price had informed him how good you were with computers, he hadn’t known how good until he read it himself. 

You were good, capable, and able. 

He knew you could handle yourself, which is why it wasn’t that which concerned him. It’s the silence. 

You’ve been quieter overall since you came back—since he brought you back. Since he helped carry you back to the truck till he watched you get patched up. 

Something inside of you, that annoyingly cheerful part of you, had withered. He knew it, Soap knew it. 

“You following me?” 

“Could say the same to you.”

“Can someone even stalk a ghost?” 

You’d tried to hide it, more so from him than the others. Your body trying to twist from him, but his arm had stopped you.

“Something you need, Lt?” 

“No.”

You’d given him a curt smile. “Goodnight then, sir.” 

He didn’t miss the way you added the sir.

Not that he expects he’s supposed to. Shifting his jaw from side to side, having watched you walk down the corridor, not even bothering to turn to look back at him. 

That had been two days ago. 

Today, you had dark circles around your eyes. A tenseness in your shoulders as you were all briefed. 

He waited, seeing if you approached him, and asked him to stay behind—not entirely sure what his answer would be if you requested it. 

But you didn’t. 

It should have been a warning, your demeanour shifting, darkness descending down over you the closer they got to the location. 

“Mouse, you copy?” 

Silence. 

Even to Soap. 

Often, Ghost knew he warranted your anger. 

He was colder with you, more stern. Especially since he’d allowed himself a moment—when he’d been able to hold you, carry you. When he’d felt your heartbeat and watched your eyes fix on him—warming him. 

He had wanted distance and walls. Many of them, more so. 

Now, he wishes he hadn’t. 

Because with Soap, you were light, never ignorant. And maybe he’d have recognised how your anger and hurt had consumed you. That what happened between you being taken and being found had festered and eaten everything good inside of you.

He could relate. 

More than most. 

“Mouse,” Ghost radios, gruff voice and all. “Fuck.” 

He taps Soap, heading in your direction, almost charging. He knew it before he saw it before his foot kicked open the door and witnessed it with his own eyes. 

He even freezes for the briefest second. 

Half impressed with the number of bodies on the floor. 

But then he reacts, hooking an arm under your hips as he both lifts and moves you against the wall. The knife falling from your fingers, clattering against the stone, the only other sound is your panicked breaths and Soap exclaiming, “Steaming bloody Jesus…” as he enters the room. 

His forearm presses into the wall beside your head, caging you in as his other palm presses into the wall next to your hip. 

Because it was the mission to kill him—once they’d got the information. 

The information he couldn’t currently prove you had—but he’d hoped you did. Because otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to contain his anger, his fury. Right now, it simmered, being kept back by that vacant look in your eyes he doesn’t recognise. Not in you, at least. 

You’re not looking at him. Not meeting his eyes. 

Too busy staring at the body on the floor, the one which has scarlet seeping from each hole you’d inflicted with a knife. His knife. 

“Mouse.” 

You don’t move, staring as if transfixed in the knowledge he’s dead. 

So he whispers your name. 

Your real name. 

Your eyelashes flutter into a blink, head-turning, finally pulling from the man who kidnapped you on the floor. 

“Got the drive,” you say in a tone void of emotion. 

+++

Ghost didn’t want to shout, he didn’t want to scream at you, but he did all the same. 

Both in anger that you disobeyed an order and in a panic because he couldn’t stop the way his mind unravelled when you didn’t respond. 

That it took him back to that moment all over again. Where you were taken from him. Where he lost you. Where he should have protected you. 

“You wanna explain what the fuck happened back there?” 

You don’t look at him, folding your arms over your chest, suddenly finding the floor interesting. Pressing the sole of your foot against the wall as you leant, seemingly unbothered.

“That’s an order, Soldier—“

“I collected the information, and I stabbed him. Mission complete. Sir.” 

Sir. 

Fucking sir. 

He hated how it made him hard. Little bitch. 

“You disobeyed a direct order—“

“—The mission—“

“—You were supposed to wait for backup.” 

“I couldn’t risk it.” 

He rounds on you, forehead pressing against yours. “You couldn’t risk it?” 

Your eyes don’t soften. They hold his gaze, full of fire, ash and destruction. “Well. We’ve both seen the evidence of bad intel, haven’t we?” 

He stills. 

Blinking, staring into your eyes, seeing the darkness still swirling. The anger has lessened but still remains. 

“You need to let it go.” 

“I need to… what?” You look hurt, more than he thought you could, and then it vanishes, swept away by anger. “…fuck you, Ghost.” 

Moving from him, turning your back on him 

“Fuck me? If you continue down this path—“

Then you turn, your eyes burying into him. “It’ll what? Keep me up at night? Consume me? Well, guess what, Simon, it already has.” Your chest rises and falls rapidly, a tremor to your outstretched arm before you snap it back to your side. “For days, they asked me who we were. They had ideas. They did… inklings. But, they… they knew my fucking name, Simon. They…told me what they’d do, and I had nothing, not a single thing to drown it out as they described all the ways they’d kill Johnny, how they’d break Gaz, how they’d hurt…” 

You. 

The unspoken word hanging in the room. 

“I got it before, I did,” you say, words shaky at your almost declaration, “but I understand why you wear that mask—why you keep people out…” 

Your eyes fill with tears, one’s he wishes he could wipe away before they even meet your cheeks. 

“People you know can hurt you the most… right? That's what you said.” 

His head reeling back an inch, but it feels like he’s been hit. And then you leave, storming out of the room, and he doesn’t stop you. 

Because he knows he shouldn’t. 

Because you’d called him Simon. 

Not Ghost. 

+++

He hates that you’re not here. 

You’ve been avoiding him. Outside of briefings and necessity, you’re nowhere else to be found. 

The rest of them are around a table, beers in their hands. His mask lifted just enough to enjoy his—if it didn’t taste like nothingness. 

Because there were no kind eyes on him. No jesting coming from a soft, sweet voice. 

Especially right now, when it’s needed as they discuss who they’re currently fucking their fist over. He hears someone ask him, something he ignores. 

And then Soap speaks for him. “I think Ghost here has his eyes on—“

“That’ll do.”

The others snigger, mumbling about getting some air as he cracks his neck. Hoping if he ignores Soap enough, he’ll vanish too. 

“Talk to her.” 

Ghost rolls his head on his shoulders, meeting his sergeant's expecting face.

Soap slaps his hand on his back. “Trust me, Lt, talk to her.” He tries to think of something, anything, to respond with. He hasn’t got anything until he continues, “Didn’t think you had a heart.” 

“A cold one. I have a cold one.” 

Soap smirks. “I doubt it’ll remain that way.” 

It doesn’t take him long to find you, seeing you huddled over papers and a computer. 

He considers watching you, but he steps in before he’s caught, offering you a mug, one you stare at suspiciously before taking it. 

You prefer a milky tea, one sugar. 

A person after his own heart. 

Right now, he imagines you need something different, so he chose coffee.

“What’s this?” 

“A boost. You need it.”

“Thanks?” 

He doesn’t know what to say. 

Letting himself see how dark the bags under your eyes have gotten. 

“You’re not sleepin’.” 

“Can’t.” 

He taps the desk with two fingers, your eyes lifting up to face him. Slowly, he retracts his hand, holding your stare as he takes his glove from his hand. He knows his sleeve has risen, the ends of his tattoo showing as he offers you his hand.

“You made me a drink, and now you want me to what, leave it?” 

Slowly, he nods. 

Your huff sounds before you stand, slapping your hand into his. It isn’t until your fingers are in his does he watch your eyes flicker, realising that you're touching him—really touching him. 

“Ghost…” 

“C’mon. Now.” 

He doesn’t let go or lessen his hold, not even when you slide your fingers between his. Not when everything inside of him tells him to run, to tell you to run. 

His mouth doesn’t open, it remains shut as he brings you to his room, opening the door, letting it swing open before he lets his eyes meet yours. 

Letting your eyes take it in before he nudged you forward. 

“Ghost…” 

“Simon,” he says gruffly. “My name is Simon.”

He shuts the door slowly behind the two of you, releasing your hand, moving it to his neck. 

Your eyes follow him, the air thickening—he can feel it. The hairs on the back of his neck standing, the ones on his arms standing. He’s even sure time is ticking slowly. 

Especially when he begins to slide his mask up, slowly showing you his chin, his cheeks, and his nose. 

Your lips parting, mouth falling open as he pulls it off that last bit. Nothing hidden, not from you. 

Swallowing, you make a noise, a squeak as if you’re about to say something, before clamping your mouth shut. 

“Hi.” 

Your lips twitch. “Hi.” 

His fingers brush yours ever so slightly, forcing your eyes to dip before landing back on his with so much adoration—he’s not sure how he deserves it. Any of it.

“What does this mean?” 

“It means you go to sleep. Here.” 

You raise a brow, and he almost smirks. Almost.

“Not like that.” 

Shrugging, you smile. “Coulda fooled me.”

Sighing, he lets go of your fingers. “You can’t sleep because you’re alone. But, if I’m here—“

“You’ll keep the ghosts away?” 

He runs his tongue over the front of his teeth. 

“Anything else this… declaration means? 

“Means you can trust me.”

He watches your head tilt, a scrunch to your brows and your forehead as you look at him. “I trusted you anyway.”

“Then get in bed.” 

He wonders if your cheeks are warm if they’re full or blush. More so when your eyes land on the floor, and he turns his back, moving to his things, finding you a t-shirt. 

On you, it’ll bury you. 

Which makes it perfect, just as perfect as the sound of you undoing your belt is to him and the faint sound of your trousers hitting the floor. 

“Here,” he says, holding the T-shirt behind his back, not wanting to look. 

Not even when he feels your fingers slide down his forearm, over his ink. When he feels your index and middle slide along his pulse, over his wrist and palm before taking it. 

It’s not until he feels your hands on his sides does he turn, your eyes looking up at him—somewhat close to the eyes he knew, the ones which first had his heart pulsing furiously as it is now. 

“Do you snore?” 

“Don’t think so.” 

“Sleep naked?” 

“Not all the time.” 

“Good,” you comment, loosening your grip as he turns to face you. “Hate for you to have gone to all this effort to not let me get a wink of sleep.” 

The double meaning of your words isn’t lost on him. 

Especially when he sees the twinkle in your eye, the grin desperate to blossom over your lips. 

“Unless…”

“Another time,” he says, even if he hates himself for it just a bit. “Now, get in bed.” 

You nod, smiling, “Yes, Sir.” 

Fucking hell. “Less of that.” 

“Any reason?” 

He snorts, turning to watch you climb into his bed, slowly pulling his T-shirt over his head, hearing you inhale as if your mouth was next to his ear. 

“I’m tryin’ to be a gentleman.”

He flicks the light off, wondering if your heart is hammering as much as his. Each step towards you feels like a mile, but he’d do it again and again. Feeling for your hand and the sheets you’re offering him, sliding in beside you.

For a moment, he’s tense. 

Just as you are. 

Especially as his bare legs find yours, your back to his chest, hair tickling his nose. He waits, letting you make the first move for comfort, feeling you breathe heavily before shuffling against him. Fingers trying to keep your hair out of his way, pulling it, twisting it.

And he remembers sliding his hand under his pillow, pulling it out slowly, the fabric rolling between his thumb and finger before he finds your hand over the sheets. He feels you tense, likely recognising it instantly, slowly taking it from him as you move, turning to face him.

Even in the darkness, he makes out your features. 

His hand reaches up, touching his chin before fingers spread up your cheeks. His thumb rolls over your bottom lip, wanting to kiss you desperately. 

“You found it?” 

He says nothing.

“You kept it?” 

He breathes out. “I did.” 

You must feel his heart hammering. You have to. 

Your body slowly comes down, arms sliding around his chest before hands find themselves on the back of his neck. 

His head turns as you let hug him, as your body says everything without so much as speaking. And all he can think is he’s an inch away from your lips. 

He’s within reach. 

He could. He should. 

“Simon…” you whisper. 

His throat goes dry, and then you kiss him. 

Silencing his mind, silencing everything that doesn’t matter—doubt, worry and the sound of that radio message—as he runs his hands over his T-shirt that covers your body. 

Pulling you close. 

Keeping you close.

——————————

I’m with you : read part two/companion piece

i'm with you

simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader an: can be read as a standalone, but does nicely accompany 'keep you close'. alludes to 18+ content, more angst, feelings, and emotions. usual, jo shit. summary: he knows how he feels, he knows how she feels. yet he fucks it up all the same. word count: 3.7k

simon 'ghost' riley masterlist

It’s a shithole. 

The safe house is barely standing. It’s a teetering, broken mess which is almost blending with trees. 

“It’s a safe shit hole. We’ll get evac to you at sunlight.”

That’s all Price had said before silence met Ghost’s ears. His tone sympathetic, but stern. The reminder of his words when they left base still swirling around some distant space in his mind: Sort it, Simon. Or I will. 

Not that he had a fucking clue how to. 

The damage is seemingly already done. He’s aware it’s his fault. He’s aware he’s a being a fucking cunt and that he’s fucking things up. 

In his defence, he’s not entirely sure how to be anything but. 

He’s stoic and distant. It’s who he is. With or without the mask. 

He’s let few in, few past the many walls and layers he’s built over the years. It frightened him he’d wanted to tear them all down when he realised that she fit perfectly between the crook of his arm and chest. 

“I’ll scope it out,” Mouse says, walking away from him before he can protest. 

His eyes watch her form, running his tongue over the front of his teeth as he reminds himself to unclench his fists. He preferred her talking his ear off. He misses her telling him useless facts about nothing and anything. 

Fuck, he just misses her. 

He misses how it was before he made her sleep in his bed before he handed her the fuckin’ scrunchie and kissed her. He misses how he didn’t feel conflicted before he’d felt how soft her thighs were, how delicious she tasted and how sinfully poetic her moaning his name was. 

“Sir.”

He’s thankful the mask is covering his fucking face as he smirks instantly. She likely knows it, just from the way she’s stood, all cocky like she’s got the fucking keys to the castle. But, as he reaches the door, he sees that same stern look—the one blended with ice and fire simultaneously, like a flamin’ tequila shot which’ll burn him from the inside out.

He’d suspected the safe house would be worse on the inside. 

As bad as he suspected it to be, he didn’t expect the electricity to be out. He didn’t expect the leak in the cupboard he supposed was a bedroom, and for it to be directly above the moth-infected mattress and poorly-made metal-frame bed.

Not that he’d sleep. 

He highly suspects she isn’t about to either. 

In another moment, he’s sure she’d be making light of the situation. Likely flirting, something she used to do more of before she was taken from him. When her heart was lighter, her fears never realised. 

I’ll let you be the big spoon, Simon. 

He conjures her voice with such ease he has to look around to check she hasn’t actually spoken. No. She’s still ignoring him, in her own personal hell-ish way, where she manages to both acknowledge and ignore him all at once. A skill he thought he was alone in mastering. 

He doesn’t comment when Mouse drags a chair to the door, hooking the back of it under the handle. He wants to comment that the chair will do fuck all to stop us being killed. That one measly push, and it's likely the whole fucking cabin will come down.

But, he doesn’t. 

Quickly suspecting the act makes her feel better. Noticing the slight tremble to her fingers, the way she keeps trying to busy herself, looking from window to window, door to ceiling. He tries not to look, to make things worse—not that he’s sure he can—however, the sound of her helmet unclipping makes his neck snap. Watching her ungloved fingers hook it onto the chair. Those same fingers that stroked his arm when she lay on his chest, the same ones he clutched between his when he knew her dreams had taken her. 

Then, all he saw was her back. 

Her frame looking smaller than she has done since the day in the med bay. 

He studies her a lot. More than he’ll ever admit.  

Whenever his eyes aren’t on what is needed, he allows them to find her. Seeking her out, like he is now. All eyes tracing her back, wondering if he can find the places he’d bruised when he filled her and stole her gasp. When he’d slowly rocked inside of her, gripping her sides as he pressed his forehead against hers. 

Then he sees it: the damn scrunchie. 

He both loathes it and misses it. 

Having wished he’d never returned it, even if it meant he gained the memory of her lips on his. When she’d been full of desperation and need, fingers so soft against his stubbly, rugged skin. 

The trade had been worth it, even if it had changed everything. 

Even if he’d awoken feeling lighter than he had in a long-time, almost content. He’d let his eyes roll over her features, capturing them all to mind until she’d stirred and he’d half-pretended to do the same. Knowing, deep down, the moment had to end—that things wouldn’t, and couldn’t, be the same. 

How could they be? His heart beat too quickly when she was around, his stomach almost bruised from how it fell to his feet whenever he thought she’d been hurt. He couldn’t control himself, barely think, barely functioned when she wasn’t in plain view. 

It would ruin something, a mission, a stakeout. Something.

Because she’d gotten under his skin. 

Mouse had scurried herself into another place she shouldn’t have, even if he’d been the one to let her in. Practically throw open the doors and be damned with the walls.   

When he thought about it, it made no sense. Not the feelings which simmered, bubbled and exploded within him, not the way everything seemed to brighten when her eyes landed on him. Not that fact that he had needed her to sleep, he had needed her to rest—not as her lieutenant, but as something else entirely. 

Now, she’s purposefully keeping her distance. Her hand rubbing her side, her foot kicking open cupboard doors, stepping back in case something which wasn’t welcome comes out. 

“You hurt?” 

Silence. But her body freezes, tenses. Slowly, in time, her head shakes, her eyes unwilling to look over her shoulder to him. Even if he’s pleading internally for her to do so. 

“Words, Mouse.” 

She huffs, shooting him a glare over her shoulder. “No, sir.” 

He expects it—the tone. Almost braced for it. 

Ghost doesn’t expect the pacing which follows, the way she switches from silently moving around the cabin to needing to move more purposefully. 

Three steps forward, three back. 

++

Once he’d been sure no one had followed, he began the fire. 

He found blankets, not bad ones, considering the rest of the place. 

There even more important since the warmth from the flames barely touches all of the corners of the room, his back against the dusty armchair he refuses to sit in as he watches her continue to pace.

She had paused for a brief moment, having searched the decrepit kitchen until she found beans, handing him a can and a half-rusting fork and began pacing once again. Her teeth nip at her bottom lip, her eyes unfocused on anything but where she moves them for a step. 

He’s not sure what it means.

Half-wishing Johnny was here to translate. He understands her, has been let in too. Not in the same way—never in the fucking same way. But, he’d be able to answer, even tell him the reasons she chose shapes over lines.

Occasionally, she stabs her beans with the fork—the only other sound than the cracking of the fire and her boots. 

He won’t admit it, but he likes the sounds of her boots on the safe house floor. How it echoes through the shit wooden walls and across the shit wooden floor. It’s as close to communicating with him as she’s gotten since the team had split up, and she’d no longer felt it necessary to respond through radio. He’d have been content to listen to it for longer, but watching her in the corner of his eyes was beginning to make him dizzy. 

“Mouse. Sit down.” 

Mouse pauses, not lifting her eyes. Seemingly thinking, deciding. Knowing her, she’s weighing up whether it’s worth ignoring his demand or not. Eventually, moving to the fire, sitting down, glaring into her own tin can. 

And it’s tense. 

Her silent treatment is more palpable now she’s sat in front of him, all red-nosed and anger-filled eyes.

“You cold?” 

“No.” 

He lowers his chin, purposefully ensuring his voice isn’t as sharp, as bruttish as it has been. “Mouse. Are you cold?” 

The look she gives him wounds him. It’s all pitiful, pleading and mixed with tight lips. One which screams for him to let it go. 

It’s worsened by the fact he can tell she’s holding back everything inside of her, not wanting a single shiver to show, a whimper or displeased groan at how she couldn’t warm herself. 

“Yes, Simon. I’m fucking cold.” 

Something both curls and unfurls in him at once at the sound of his name. 

The way she spits his name stains the air, making it buzz around him. It punctures and breathes life into the tension, making it double, triple. It’s stifling, mixing with burning wood and damp as he grits his jaw. 

“Come here.” 

“So you can avoid me again?” 

There it is. 

Her words were even accompanied by his least favourite expression: the angered glare.

“I said—“

She groans, loud, purposeful. Slightly edging forward along the dusty floor, shooting him a glare which he supposes should mean “happy, now?”—but he’s not fucking happy, not even close to it. 

He weighs up his options, considering both the fallout and the payoff before he grabs her ankle and pulls. He’s surprised at the lack of resistance, her body sliding with ease across the short distance until she is closer, almost entirely between his legs. 

“Fuck sake…” she whispers, deep under her breath.

Rolling her head on her neck, letting her eyes land on the fire and her grip remain iron-like on the can. 

“You gonna ignore me all night?” 

“Yes.” 

He rolls his eyes, placing the can down on the floor as he stares at the fire too. He watches them dance, the flames. Almost losing himself in it before he hears her can be placed down too. 

Heavier, more filled than his.

A swirl of worry rose in him, wrapping itself around important organs and sensibility as she let her face turn, letting him see her. 

“I hate beans.” 

“Course you do,” he replies, studying her. 

He lets his eyes fall over her, from her bent knees to her face, back down to her boots pressed against the floor. 

If he could, he’d leave this place and find her something. Bring her back greasy food, and a milkshake. Hell, he’d even find her a plate of curry and rice from that place she always talks about near her home. 

Not realising until now his hand is still on her ankle, something she’s too becoming aware of as she wiggles it—attempting to free herself from him.

“Why are you doing this?” Why did you let me in, to freeze me out, Simon. 

The words, both said and unsaid, dance to him, all broken and sad as soon as they leave her lips.

I don’t know. 

That’s the honest answer. He’s not sure why he let her leave that morning without explaining what he was thinking. He’s not sure why he just stared when she asked him a question—a simple, normal fucking question. Ghost isn’t even about a lot right now, other than he misses her.

And she must sense it, the shift. 

She must understand him, and see his thoughts all of a sudden as if they were being painted onto the walls. 

Because truthfully, he feels better when she’s close and feels almost whole. He could almost let himself imagine watching mundane television with her, doing a food shop at a supermarket with too many choices. He can also imagine ruining her over and over again. Desperately needing her fingers to snake through his hair as he takes her apart with just his tongue. Never wanting another mouth to wrap around his cock ever again, finding her the most terrifyingly intoxicating thing he’s ever met in his entire life. 

Her arms push her up, quickly distancing herself from him. 

“Mouse…” 

Shaking her head, taking strides to the pathetic kitchen as his chest tightens, knowing he should move; it feels harder to breathe as he watches her, especially when she leans over the poorly made counter—back to him.

Don’t leave. 

Don’t leave me. 

The same words which he thought of when she’d fallen asleep against him, her ear close to his heart. Not wanting her, and yet wanting every single part of her all at once in some confusing turn of events.

Because he’d never banked on her agreeing to come back with him. 

Not even just to sleep. 

He’d not planned or expected to hand her the scrunchie, and her kiss him. He hadn’t banked on it being the key to unlocking everything he’s been carefully stuffing down inside of him, desperately trying to lock it all away so he doesn’t ruin things, so he doesn’t change things. 

She turns, all so suddenly. 

Again, as though hearing him, and the look she gives him—fuck, it would have floored him if he wasn’t already sat down. It knocks the wind from his sails, the cockiness from his confidence. He almost feels stripped back, no mask, no uniform. 

And, it commands him to stand up. 

An order that he gladly answers as her eyes scream, now or never, Simon. Last fucking chance.

He stands, striding, closing the gap in half the steps it had taken her—stopping just short of her. Allowing her one more moment to glare at him, to inject her eyes into his skin, to feel anger, to feel hate towards him before he makes sure he takes every last bit of it away. 

If she was brave enough to ask, he’d tell her his favourite part of her is her eyes. 

Not the thighs she thinks he adores, not the smile he finds lights a room. 

Right now, he’s got a front-row seat to watching them thaw. Slowly, bit by bit, waiting until the right time before he swallows, hand hovering over her jaw. 

It’s hard not to struggle for breath when he stares into them when he loses himself in the shades that make up her eyes. The thousands of mini-expressions they show, let him in, just enough to read her. 

He half wishes the wind was howling or the house creeks. Because Mouse doesn’t speak, the silence is so thick he’s adamant she can hear how quickly his heart is beating. As though she thinks the entire moment is fragile, and at risk of shattering. 

Ghost knows why that is. He let her think that.

He’d let it be that way. 

He’d acted coldly, filling her mind with thoughts of him regretting it. But he didn’t. If anything, he felt as though he’d been resuscitated, while not knowing he’d been dead. That in one night she’d ruined him, and all she did was count sheep. 

“Lift my mask.” 

His words leave his lips softly, less gruff than he’s used to speaking. He’s sure it’s the reason she holds his stare for a beat, likely focusing on every expression dancing in his eyes. 

Mouse had told him, in her half-lucid, sleep-filled way, he said more with his eyes than he thought. Those words had swirled around his mind all night and ever since. Always wondering if they’re doing it, just like he is right now. 

He hopes they are. Hopes she can see how much he needs her to lift the mask, how much he needs her to do so he knows he can kiss her. Because words are not his strength, but action is. 

How can he make her forgive him if he can’t kiss his apologies into her lips, into her skin? He’d get onto his knees for her, if needed, but he needs her to lift his mask first. Silently commanding her to do so as her hands slightly shake, moving tentatively to the fabric at his neck. 

But she does lift it. 

Fingers lightly pulling it free from his neck, the fabric pulling at the tiny hairs and over his stubble. A cold finger and thumb slide either side, brushing his skin, leaving scorch marks he hopes burn forever as he watches her eyes.

Showing her he’s okay with it, all of it. If he could get the words out, he’d tell her as much. That the first day when she didn’t cower from him, when she stared him straight in the eyes, nodded and called him sir, he’d been fucked. When she was taken, stolen from him, he’d almost lost it—a gnawing inside of him which only stifled when he knew she was back safe. 

He doesn’t think she’ll ever understand the effect on him, likely never believing him.

The cold, six-foot-something soldier who has more hidden and confidential in his file than information has fallen. 

Fallen so far he doesn’t care he’s without any means of being saved, if she decides to not catch him. 

She’d never understand it, the effect she had on him. Likely suspecting he’s not capable of it, just because he’s silent, because he’s practical. But he feels, just not on the surface. And sometimes, that’s a bigger burden to carry. 

Nails drag over his stubble, the fabric lifting, rolling over the hair at the back of his neck. It almost makes him shudder—catching the scent of the sweat on her body mixing with her shampoo. A scent he can’t rid from his pillow, not that he wants to. 

It’s only as the mask clears his nostrils does he realise how much he loathes this place, hates the smell of it and the sight of it. But it’s a small blessing. A quietness in the middle of nothingness where this moment can exist. 

And then her fingers stop, letting the mask sit just above the base of his nose, resting on the bridge. 

“Lift the mask.”

She swallows. Her eyes flicking down before meeting his, sliding it up the last bit—freeing the skin around his eyes and his forehead. The cool air dancing over perspiration. 

It’s intimate, so much so that he’s not sure if Mouse knows she’s holding her breath as he cups her jaw and cheek. He makes his touch feathery, and gentle. Soft and slow as he slowly tilts her head up, watching her eyes focus on him as she allows her arms to fall back to her sides. It’s cautious all of it. Not his or her usual quick, determined, and efficient movements. 

He wonders if Mouse can tell his cheeks are on fire, whether she knows his stomach is doing flips as he strokes her cheek. 

And then she sighs. “It’s because you’re my lieutenant.”

His mind silences.

Empties. 

Her eyebrows rise, waiting before she smirks. “Words, sir.”

“Yes.” 

Because he is her lieutenant. Her superior. 

It’s fraternisation. Prohibited. Even if Price isn’t fucking bothered, even if Soap told him to find her. Some part of him knows it's more than wrong—knows it can put her at risk, from others, from higher-ups… from enemies. 

And then he feels it. 

Her catching him.

Small hands on his waist, holding him tightly. His free hand moving up to the back of her head, fingers sliding over her neck, up her hair, before he pulls, feeling bobbled silk-covered ghosts. 

“Mouse…” 

She stiffens as if waiting for him to move, but he doesn’t. Not this time. Not now.

Even if he should. Even if it would make sense too. 

Instead, his lips descend until they find hers gently, almost experimentally—fearful she’ll pull away. 

She doesn’t. 

Instead, holding him more firmly, more determined at his waist. He feels her pull, tug at him to move closer, as his tongue presses against her lips before things turn more desperate, hungry, and needy. 

She makes the blood rush through his veins and silences his heartbeat from his ears. That’s when his apologies really begin—when they begin searing themselves against her lips, then her jaw, and then her neck. 

His hand clutches the scrunchie to her lower spine, keeping her flush to him, showing in all the ways he can that this is what he wants. Not distance, not space or avoidance—as much as his behaviour has said otherwise. 

Ghost slides his hand down and around her thighs until he lifts her onto the counter—the one which groans at the intrusion of someone who dares use it for something other than letting it sit there—nudging her thighs apart, sliding as comfortably as he can between them as he grips her waist, feels her skin on his. 

He doesn’t mind that their lips part, her breaths mingling with his. He gets to watch her eyes, all wild and full of something he can’t describe.

He lets her hand brush over his cheek, smudging the black from around his eyes into her nails, and he whispers her name—so careful with it, like it’s something he could break. 

“Do that ever again—” Don’t ever hurt me. 

“Never.” I couldn’t. I’m sorry.

She waits for a beat, before nodding. 

He wants to lift her, move her somewhere more comfortable, although he’s not sure where that’ll be. The floor is their best bet, he could pull her flush against him all night, turn her legs to jelly, and let his palm slide down her stomach until she’s gasping his name and he feels how slick she is on his fingers. 

“No. Not here. I'm worried the walls'll come down.”

Rolling his eyes, he snorts, burying his head into her neck, silently agreeing.

His fingers drawing soft circles on her waist, not sure how to tell her he's happy with this. He's just wanted this. To hold her. Breathe her in and have the chance to explain.

“Simon…”

He pauses, both his hand and his thoughts. Lifting his head, sliding a hand over her cheek, feeling her curl into, just like she did in his bed. 

“...I feel the same…”

Good. That's good.

"So... don't let me fall. don't let this continue, if you're not going to catch me. If you're going to leave. If you'll ignore me—"

"Stop."

It's sharp, leaving his tongue gruffer than he'd hoped.

The words, the ones he wants to say sitting on the tip, sat right at the edge of his lips, unwilling to fall through into the air. So, his lips answer her in the only way he knows how. Not sure how else to show her he'd catch her. He'd catch her every single fucking time.

Always.

I’m so down bad for ghost and konig

I just can’t explain it, every time I see them I act like a feral cat in heat I can’t control myself😔😖

Me when I’m reading a good fanfic and the author writes “my knuckles turned white as I clenched the sheets"

After I read that I can not bring myself to read it anymore 😭

guys i highly recommend this story, infact i recommend every single piece this babe has written. so fucking hot!! 😫💞

simon "ghost" riley ⏤ b's masterlist

(18+) — nsfw/sexual content included red — includes dark themes, detailed warnings (usually) provided

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random thoughts live here (18+ tag)

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knights in shining tactical gear | 1

s. 'ghost' riley x f!reader x j. 'soap' mactavish

Summary: After the undead apocalypse has destroyed most of society, your main goal is to survive and take care of your baby niece. At a moment of utter desperation, two veterans come to your rescue.

Warnings/Info: Zombie Apocalypse AU | 18+ | tw: suicidal thoughts; angst; dark humor; cussing; tw:blood and gore; fluff; hurt/comfort; found family; strangers to lovers; protective!Ghost and Soap

💀》 Masterlist

You grit your teeth until your jaw nearly pops with every step you take. A sharp pain shoots through your ankle, up your leg whenever your body weight shifts to your right foot.

Your ankle...it's broken, at least badly sprained. You're not sure, you didn't have any time to check since you tripped up and twisted it during your escape from your previous shelter. Plus, you're neither nurse nor doctor.

The garage was dark, a clusterfuck of boxes upon boxes, cartons, a broken car, and tools everywhere, and then it happened, but you had to get out of there fast, or else you would've been trapped.

You gulp down the scream caused by pain and frustration bubbling up in your throat and blink away the tears of fear and agony running down your dirty cheeks as you clutch the bundled-up baby closer to your chest. She's still sleeping, even while the dead are chasing you.

Now you're limping down the road towards the gas station. The large front windows had been broken in, that's why you passed on taking up shelter there when you came through the small-town initially, but the heavy door to the storage room behind the counter was intact then, so perhaps you can barricade yourself in there.

It won't be of any use though, the voice of reason is screaming in the back of your mind, but the pain and hopelessness are making you act haphazardly.

You're out of food, meds, baby formula. You lost your handgun in the previous house, and you'll be trapped again once the dead have caught up with you.

"I can't do it...I can't do it, Derek", you whimper as your arms now begin to ache and tremble from exhaustion. "I'm so sorry"

The snarling and groaning becomes louder as the herd of undead starts closing in behind you. You're a couple of feet ahead of them, but you're getting slower and they keep marching relentlessly.

You'd promised your brother you'd take care of his baby girl as he died in your arms.

"Promise me, Y/N, whatever it takes."

You did. You tried. It wasn't enough.

The dark, scary thoughts come back to you. You could've ended your misery when you still had the chance. A quick, merciful death for Sadie, and a bullet to your head afterwards.

No. God, no! You squeeze your eyes shut as you begin to move faster, and you scream freely then, from the top of your lungs to overshadow the pain.

Sadie jerks awake in your arms and you feel her big inhale of air before she starts crying and wailing with you.

You try to coo at her, try to calm her down while you make your way inside the gast station, but it's little to no use.

Broken glass crunches beneath your boots as you walk inside the building. A quick scan of the store, there's no time for looting or making sure it's deserted. The shelves look empty anyway, and the storage door is still closed.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, sweetheart", you hush her as you spot a crowbar on the counter, caked with dried-up blood at its curved end. You grab it in a haste, carefully securing Sadie close to your chest with your other hand.

"Come on now, please"

You limp behind the counter, your blood now rushing in your ears as adrenaline continues to be the only factor keeping you from crumpling.

There's movement behind you, the glass crunches again as the first undead pool into the store, and when you reach the door handle your heart is violently beating in your throat.

This is it, if the door is locked, you will die and Sadie, too.

But as you push the handle down, the door proofs unlocked and while there seems to be something blocking it from the other side, you manage to push it open just enough to throw the crowbar in and squeeze through afterwards.

You kick it closed behind you and brace your back against it as you try to catch your breath.

Sadie is still crying and clinging to your shirt, so you start rocking her in your arms, leaning in to so she can listen to your voice as you hum a random melody for her.

You flinch when the undead start knocking and throwing themselves at the door.

"It'll hold, honey. We're safe here, they can't get in", you whisper repeatedly, until you start believing it yourself.

There's a wooden chair to your left, and it must've been the object blocking the door before. You reach for it and set it down in front of the door before you sit. You let your gaze wander around the room, your heart still beating fast as you try to take it in. It's not big, but mostly dark. The only source of daylight coming from the tiny window at the top of the wall across from you.

Your left leg bounces nervously as the noise outside becomes louder. You don't know how many of those monsters have followed you. 20? And all the hubbub will only attract more.

Sadie is still fussing as you chew your bottom lip raw, zoned out for a moment as you try to comprehend the situation. You'll crash soon without water and pain meds, when the adrenaline has worn off. You can feel it already as your brain registers your hurt ankle. It's fire licking up your leg now, up to your spine.

You let your head fall back and rest against the, but the permanent knocking and guttural snarls make you sit up straight again.

You can't be taking breaks now.

You don't know how long you've been sitting on the chair, rocking Sadie back to sleep in your tired embrace while the dead continue to try and break in.

They can smell you, sense you, even if you stay perfectly still. Once their only instinct gets triggered, they won't stop hunting a human until you have successfully destroyed the remains of their rotten brain.

You look down at the baby sleeping in your arms; she looks more than peaceful right now, but you know she'll demand some formula soon. You smack your dry lips together and exhale slowly, wincing when you try to wiggle your toes. The pain has subsided a little now that you had a moment to rest, but the numbness of your limb worries you. What if it's broken? You don't know how to fix a broken ankle. Hell, you don't even know if you'll be able to keep the both of you alive through the night.

"Lord, just give me one more day and I'll find someone who can take better care of her", you whimper into the darkness as your eyes well up with a fresh wave of tears.

Suddenly, the steady, sharp firing of gunshots cuts through the familiar noise of guttural snarls and moans. You perk up on your chair as the hammering on the door becomes less and less when the undead abandon their hunt to focus their attention elsewhere.

There's some shouting, more gunshots, closer now too. Sadie wakes up again and wiggles in your arms as new noises echo through the store.

You duck instinctively when some shots are directed at the door.

"Knives out, Johnny. We neeed'a safe our ammo"

"Roger that, Lt."

There's more ruckus outside, some kind of hassle, more snarls, then bodies dropping to the floor. Your heart rate drops and your breathing goes shallow as you press your ear to the door.

"Ugly bastard that one", one man says and chuckles. His accent is thick and Scottish, his voice friendly and eager. "tried'ta take a bite o' me hand."

There's another voice, deep and unfaltering. His accent smooth and British.

"Be quicker next time then. Ya done it a million times now, Johnny."

Sadie babbles then, tugs at the fabric of your shirt to get your attention.

"Shh, sweetie. Be quiet...please, be quiet", you coo at her desperately. Perhaps they'll leave you alone if you stay put.

"Ya think she's in there?"

"Must be. It's the only place she coulda gone"

Your stomach drops then. Dealing with the undead was one thing, but running into men as a lone female was quite a different story and you haven't had one good experience yet.

"Lass uh miss...yer in there? We just want ta help ya, thought ya might be in trouble"

You bite your tongue to keep yourself from making a sound while you gently rock Sadie to keep her quiet.

"There's, ah - shit. Uh, we don't want to harm you, miss. We uh we just wanna make sure you're okay"

His deep voice makes a shiver run down your spine and the way he's fumbling with the right words to not scare you, makes you less tense.

"Very smooth with yer words there, Lt. Is that how you used to talk to the ladies? No wonder yer one lonely, ol' bast-"

"Shaddup, Johnny! Bloody hell...the lass is terrified, I'm trying ta make her trust us"

"D'ya even know how you look with that mask on? Blood and guts all over? Fuck, I'm terrified of ya right now"

Their sudden banter makes your brows furrow and your fear of them cease somehow, but a sudden, timid knock makes you jump again.

"Hey, miss? My name is Sergeant John MacTavish, me and Lieutenant Riley here just wanna make sure yer doing okay. We, uh, we heard ya scream and...we heard a baby. The baby yours?"

You're not entirely sure why, but as soon as the sergeant drops his voice to that gentle tone, Sadie's eyes light up with joy. Perhaps she thinks it's her father speaking to her, and the thought makes your heart clench with grief.

"She's -"

Your voice is hoarse as you try to speak up, so you clear your throat before you start again.

"She's my niece. Her name is Sadie", you say and your throat becomes thight as you choke back tears. "She's only eight months old."

"Alright then", John says and lets out a relieved chuckle. "And what's yer name, miss?"

Sadie giggles in your arms, tries to wiggle herself from the blanket and her sudden eagerness calms you down.

"My name is Y/N, Sergeant."

"Have you got any weapons on ya, Y/N?", the other man, the lieutenant, butts in and it makes you suspicious again.

"What if I do?"

"Way ta go, Lt! Make her distrust us again...Jesus fuck"

There's a moment of silence, before the lieutenant speaks up again. More coherent and suave this time. His voice runs down your spine like oil, and you can't help but be curious about his appearance.

"I'd say you're lying, Y/N, but that's fine. I'd probably lie too if I was in your situation. You're a sharp woman. Tough as nails, too"

"Well, I'm trying", you mutter under your breath before another, sharper knock follows.

"So, will ya attack us if we come inside now, Y/N? Aye or nay?"

You snicker at John's choice of words and your throat hurts afterward. Meanwhile, Sadie continues to wiggle and move in your embrace.

"Fine, sweetheart. Don't make me regret this"

You wince again as you slowly lift your aching body from the wooden chair, only to limp towards the wall across from the door.

"You can come in. I'm unarmed", you call out to them as you lean against the wall to keep your weight off your injured ankle.

There's some mumbling, some words shared between the two and you immediately regret your decision, but it's too late now and then the door door is pushed open.

They walk in slowly with heavy boots and steps, obviously armed to their teeth with their rifles raised and the tactical lights pointed at you, and when your gaze falls upon the giant man with the skull mask, your legs nearly cave in.

"All clear, Lt.", the shorter one says and drops his rifle, though it dangles on a sling at his side. His eyes light up as they meet yours and he offers you a friendly smile.

"See, we ain't so bad, huh? We're the good guys", he jokes, then shrugs. "sort of."

You nod eagerly and swallow thickly as he walks towards you. It's too quick, too familiar and you crouch down at the wall even though your ankle punishes you with searing pain, and you hug Sadie so tightly to your chest, you fear she might suffocate.

"Easy there, Soap", the Lieutenant barks, but stays at a reasonable distance. Now you know what the sargeant meant with the mask, the blood and gore.

And John listens to him, backs away immediately to give you space with his hands raised.

"I'm sorry, lass. Didn’t mean ta scare ya right away"

You nod and try not to hyperventilate. Sadie cries out and ease your hold on her at once.

"That's a baby", John says in awe, shooting his lieutenant a look of his shoulder. "a real baby, Lt."

You think you can see him roll his blackened eyes at the statement before he drops his rifle at his side too. He crouches down, but still looks huge, and he points at your legs.

"You hurt?"

Now John gets down on one knee too when he notices the way you're gripping and pawing at your injured ankle. You didn't even notice you were doing it.

"I...I tripped and twisted my ankle. I've been running with it since"

"How long?", he asks soberly while John pulls something out his tactical vest and grabs his canteen from his belt.

"A couple of hours? I'm not sure"

He clicks his tongue while John sucks in a breath.

"Ouch. Sorry, 'bout that, lass. Here...can I give that to you? It's water and some pain meds"

"Only one, Johnny. She's weak and we need her awake to...to care for the baby"

The lieutenant clears his throat then and lets John take care of you for a moment. You're less intimidated now, but still wary; you must be.

"There ya go. Good job", he praises you as you swallow the white pill and drink eagerly from his canteen. John watches with an enchanted smile as you hold the flask to Sadie.

"She's a cutie, eh. I just want'ta squish those chubby cheeks"

You laugh breathlessly and when John has another close look at Sadie, she reaches her little hand out to him. The sight makes you tear up and melt simultaneously.

"Alright, ya finished? We need to get going. Get somewhere safe before nightfall"

John coos at Sadie, who giggles at the attention, but he nods and his eyes shift back to you.

"Think ya can walk?"

You press your lips together, suddenly afraid they might leave you behind after all if you say no. But you shake your head reluctantly nonetheless.

"Her ankle's looking pretty grim, Lt. It might get worse if she continues to walk without any support"

The lieutenant has his back turned towards the room as he looks outside into the store with his rifle up again. He peeks over his shoulder, dark eyes assessing yours before he drops his rifle with a sigh, marching towards you.

You push back into the wall, spine stiff like an arrow as he crouches next to John. His mask looks even more frightening close up, with small splatters of dark blood scattered over it. Even his black gloves have a white skeleton print, and you kind of admire the dedication to detail. He still towers over you, but you feel like he tries his best to be on eye level.

"Soap, you take the babe, I'll carry her and then we move fast", he explains factually before adressing you directly. "That alright with you?"

You gulp, biting the inside of your cheek as you nod at him. Meanwhile, John holds his large hands out to you with a look of encouragement in his eyes.

"Promise I'll take good care of her", he assures you before you hand her over to him. He looks down at her with a smile and rocks her gently as he stands up.

"Aye, now your turn", the lieutenant chimes in and your attention is on him again. You want to ask him how he wants to go through with this, but before you can do so, you yelp when he picks you up bridal style like you weigh less than a bag full of feathers.

You awkwardly cling to his tactical vest, unsure how to position yourself in his strong arms while he keeps his gaze straight ahead. You feel his hand on your back, the other resting on your knee, squeezing ever so slightly as he moves.

"Alright, Johnny, moving out."

a lot’s gonna change

Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!reader

zombie apocalypse au

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 <<

description: after helping Soap and Ghost they invite you back to their safehouse to get warm. both seem to take a keen interest in keeping you around. 

warnings: canon typical violence, pretty tame chapter

word count: 2.5k

“Where are yah headin’?” Soap asks, his face rosy from the cold. The three of you had begun your journey to the other side of town. The two men had claimed to have a makeshift base in an empty house- one with running water. You adjust your own balaclava at the question. There wasn’t an honest answer. 

“Was planning on starting back up North for the Yukon- figure summer there wouldn’t be half bad.” You shrug. It wasn’t entirely untrue. You were confident enough in your abilities to survive in the wild that the idea seemed appealing.

The pair exchange glances with each other, a silent conversation being had without you. It wasn’t uncommon for those in groups to behave this way. when you’re trapped with the same person for so long it must be hard to remain separate individuals rather than a collective. 

 “That’s an awfully long walk from here- that’ll take yah till summer at least. What’s up that way?” Soap questions, his face contorting into confusion. There was nothing in the territories, it was basically the same as before the outbreak. Just like Alaska. The only people living that far North were the Natives that had reclaimed their land. As the infection drags on, resources made from before are getting harder to find in useable condition. Retreating into the wilderness where no infected could reach seemed like the most reasonable option for good weather. 

“Nothing.” You assert. That seems to be a sufficient enough answer for him. 

Keep reading

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part nineteen —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

The cool paste feels tingly on your skin as you rub it against your bruised stomach, wincing. Christ. Maybe Ghost was right to think he might break you. Beneath the mottled patchwork, another kind of pain stirs— your muscles are growing. Firm and tight. The only soft parts of you left are your breasts and your ass. Gently applying the paste to a nasty purple one on your left cheek, you curiously pinch the sore flesh between your fingers. Scratch that. Even your ass is firming up. 

Arnica has healing properties. Yesterday, you found a patch of it with Blue and created a salve with some water. You already applied some last night before bed. Whether or not it’s helping probably doesn't mean much when new ones are about to be added; still, the placebo effect brings some comfort.

You're still massaging your backside when the bathroom door groans beneath a heavy fist. 

"Hurry up. Grab your bow."

“Shit.” You startle, almost dropping the salve. "Uh, coming.”

Chucking on a clean shirt and your old pair of jeans, you pad out of the bathroom, ignoring the cry of your joints. Ghost is outside waiting for you. Wait— bow? Confusion delivers an uptick to your pulse; you never bring your bow to train.

“What’s going on?”

"The air," he replies in a flat tone.

The stale smell offers enough explanation. You cringe. "Should we split up?"

He shakes his head and nods towards the direction the gentle breeze is rolling in. "No need. It's coming from this way."

In the violet wash of morning, you trail beside him over tall grasses and scattered groundhog burrows as the air leads the way, luring you opposite the clearing where you train. There haven't been any Greys since the one you burned together. For the past few weeks, you'd almost forgotten about their existence— a pleasant naivety for once. 

Neither of you bothers with much small talk. He asks if you're sore, probably noticing how stiff you are, and you answer honestly. That's it.

You keep your attention strictly on the wood bow molded into your palm and the slight rustling of leaves all around you, scanning for signs of anything astray. You don't look at Ghost, even when you feel his eyes flicker to the side of your head. Staring at him for even a second longer than necessary rouses something in your gut that was once easy to label as fear; now you don't know what to call it.

He is wearing thicker clothes today, the intimidating vest stocked with ammo glued to his chest. You'd gotten used to his more casual wardrobe of gym shorts and hoodies. They make him look... softer, almost. A little less like a death omen. Though, you sincerely doubt there are any soft parts of Ghost left under all that gear, given the rigid planes you felt beneath your hands when you—

"There."

You snap your gaze in the direction Ghost is pointing at.

At first, you don't see anything.

Then, squinting, you make out a red color far too metallic to naturally sprout among the conifers. 

An arrow is urgently slotted on the bowstring as the two of you head towards it, your brows tightly knitted. You've been this way a few times and never saw a— is that a red car?— before. Closing in, your suspicions are confirmed when a stroke of sunlight bounces off the metal bumper. The patchy sedan is tucked within a bush, tail-end sticking out, with half-flat tires resting on corroded rims. Shadows of movement dance behind the tinted windows, too disjointed to be natural.

"What the fuck?" you mutter under your breath, boots scuffing over a long-faded gravel pathway that is now shrouded in weeds. The car must've been following it before winding up in the bush— the occupants no longer human enough to drive.

"They... they must have just turned while they were driving," you think aloud. "When did this even get here?"

"Maybe during the night," Ghost mutters.

He paces forward and swings open the passenger door. A string of moans is released as a Grey lurches within the confinements of the seatbelt, but he quickly silences it with a bullet to the forehead, causing it to flop sideways out of the car. Maybe just a day ago, it was a young man. His hair is fully intact and he's wearing a blue shirt with the Chelsea Football Club logo on the back.

"I wonder why they were driving this way to begin with," you say quietly, stomach rolling.

In the driver's seat is the slumped-over corpse of an older man, having died from so many bite wounds before the infection could take hold. The early stages of decomposition smell almost worse than the infection and you have to breathe through your mouth as you head for the back door. 

"There's another here I think."

You're ready to shoot and put whoever it once was out of their misery when you pry open the door, but the sight of a small body wriggling around makes you freeze. Curled up against the faded leather is an infected boy, no older than eight or nine. His eyes are all white except for the outer rim where a few vessels are still filled with red blood. Your fingertips dig fiercely into the frame of the door as you stare down at him; his soft brown hair, his small hands, his Minecraft shirt. He whimpers and tries to claw at you, mouth hung open in mindless hunger.

The feeling that washes over you is hot and cold at the same time. It's not the first or last time you've seen an infected child, so you don't know why the sight traps you for a few heartbeats.

A voice emerges beside you. "It's not a kid anymore."

You almost forgot Ghost was there. Your teeth clench. "Yeah, I know."

You feel his eyes burning into you. Your fingers tighten and untighten around the arrow's stem as you aim. 

"Hone it, Twix— the anger."

The tension in your jaw releases at the same time as your arrow snaps forward, cutting through the boy's skull and driving his limp body down to the car floor.

“You good?”

You forcefully swallow and look away, giving Ghost a short nod. "Guess that's all of them."

He slowly nods in agreement, studying you, but all he says is, "For now."

“Don’t you think it’s strange?”

“Seen stranger things over the years,” he says. “It seems like they were headed somewhere, maybe needed a new place to settle, and one of them got bit. Infected the others.”

You nod, thinking it over. “What about the car?"

"No fuel left, so it's pretty useless." Rifle still in his grip, he moves around to the hood and props it open. "Might have some parts I can use, though."

While he scavenges for gears that aren't rusted beyond functionality, you take a look at their belongings. There is an empty bottle of whiskey in the cupholder. In the boy's lap is a stuffed tiger that you assume was once white, but now it's a worn of grey. You carefully shift his corpse and take it.

"I have a friend who might be able to care of this for you."

In the trunk, at least, you find some tripwire. 

Dragging the two adult bodies back to the trench for burning is your 'strength' training for the day. Since they haven't decomposed much yet, they're heavy; you go back and forth, taking one at a time. Ghost carries the small one over his shoulder. After the flames snuff out the smell of rot, he relieves you, claiming he has other shit to take care of—more traps to set with the newfound tripwire.

"Hey. Would you like this?" you ask Blue when she's up, handing her the tiger. 

"I'm kinda too old for dolls, Twix." She must see the expression on your face because she shakes her head and disappears into her room for a minute before coming out with a teddy bear. "My mom gave me this one when I was a baby and it just sits on my bed by itself, but now it can have a friend."

You smile and nod. "Yeah, okay."

The day is spent playing board games with her. When she notices how sore you are, she offers an exclusive massage from Grim, who hops over your back and legs as you relax face-down on the couch. However, even with the honorary treatment, the aching lingers. 

"Auntie, I'm over here!"

In a violet-tinted field, you search for the voice.

It's barren and hazy, with no hard edges or places for a little boy to hide; so why is it so hard to find him? You call his name. You wander around, aimless, until you catch a familiar whiff of baked cinnamon and fresh laundry. This way. He's this way. You start running fervently. When a small hand tugs at yours, you whip around and try to grab him, but the soft touch dissolves through your fingers like ash. 

When you wake up, there's a hand on your back and blood on your tongue, evidence that you'd bitten through it during your sleep. The taste is quickly replaced with bile as you launch up, grabbing the sleeve of someone's shirt.

"Oh no, you don't."

The hand moves to your hair, wrapping it around in a fistful before forcing your head to tilt down. A bucket is tucked beneath your chin. You vomit into it, the cool metal rim hissing against your fingertips. Again and again. When it's all out, your throat feels like sandpaper. 

"Done?"

The dark room surrounds you; the perfect place to hide what you know must be a ghastly look on your face. Awareness creeps in, and you're not thrilled by the fact that you've thrown up in front of him twice now. Without looking up at the white skull you know is there, you nod.

Wordlessly, he takes out a cigarette and lighter. You hear a deep inhale. See the dull glow of the flame. Then, he passes it to you and leaves.

"You look like shit today."

You can't even be offended, fully aware of the purple painted beneath your eyes. One look at you quirks his brow up in that annoying mannerism of his.

You offer a tight-lipped simper, mumbling. "At least I can always count on you for brutal honesty."

"Good trait to look for in an ally." He throws the gauze at you and you begin wrapping up. "I don't suppose it has anything to do with the fact you nearly ruined another shirt of mine last night."

You tie off the gauze and glance up. "Look, I'm s—" you stop yourself, "I mean, I'm not sorry, because you wanted my box open so now it's open. You already knew the potential consequences."

"Try opening it without emptying your stomach next time."

You flash him a look. "I think I miss when you pretended I didn't exist."

"And I miss getting a full night of sleep."

"Can we just get started? I'm ready."

Ghost keeps his eyes on you as he motions a fisted hand. "As you wish."

When the familiar dance begins, and adrenaline ripples up your spine, you realize that you missed this yesterday. The rest felt good, but this— the thrill of seeing Ghost start to get as worked up as you, the sweat stains on his shirt matching your own... it is something you itch for these days. 

You get a few hits in that have your ego swelling. But then— the rough night catches up with you after half an hour of wordless sparring. Your breathing grows labored, while his is barely winded.

"Tired yet?" he asks.

"No," you say, but he calls you out immediately.

"You're a terrible liar," he reminds you. A few more swings have your lungs burning as you dodge until one finally catches up with you, and whatever healing your homemade salve has done is erased by a fresh layer of pain. 

As you clutch your side, he changes the subject. "Are you going to tell me what it was about then?"

"What what was about?"

"Whatever was making you whimper in your sleep."

Your face twists. "I wasn't 'whimpering'."

"Fine, then. Crying," he corrects plainly.

You sigh through your nose, averting your gaze only for a moment, then focusing back on him before he can strike you again. His words hang in the air, ignored, as you jab an elbow toward his ribs. He grabs you by the knob of it and pulls you unnecessarily close to his chest. When you try to wriggle free by placing a hand on his chest, he fists your hair, which has slipped out of a bun into a haphazard ponytail, and tugs hard enough to force your eyes up to his.

His gaze is demanding but his voice is light— a mere breath over your forehead. "Tell me why someone who has seen plenty of infected kids by now seemed so bothered by the one she saw yesterday. He reminded you of someone, didn't he?"

The mention of it makes you snap. "Stop."

"Stop what?"

"Trying to act like you know anything about me."

"I know enough. You are easy to read."

So that feeling you get when he looks at you isn't just in your head; he truly can see through. Your nails dig into your palm. "There's no need to read me. We're not friends. We're just... allies, or whatever."

"Or whatever," he repeats thoughtfully, tasting the words. "You talk like a teenager."

"Compared to you I might as well be," you retort.

"Jesus." He chuffs out an exhale, eyes flickering down for a moment before returning up to yours, narrowing. "Let's not change the subject here." 

"Fine. Take this stupid Halloween mask off," you lift the hand on his chest up to the hem of his balaclava, feeling how weighted the fabric is with sweat. "And I will tell you all about it."

His jaw flexes before he gently guides your hand away. "Tempting offer, but I'll pass."

You refuse to acknowledge the tinge of embarrassment at his dismissal and inch back as far as the hand on your hair will allow. The close proximity, or harsh sun, is making it hard to breathe. "Well, it's not fair for you to ask me shit about my life when you don't even let me see your face."

"I never claimed to be fair." 

"I promise I won't vomit no matter how ugly you are. I've seen worse things out here."

His hand tightens. "I think I miss when you were scared of me. Less mouthy back then."

"Well, I'm not anymore."

"No?" He flips you around so your back is against him, one hand settling on the toned curve of your hip. His voice lowers to your ear. "Maybe I need to fix that."

An unwelcomed shiver courses through you. He lets go. A wristbone nudges against your spine, shoving you forward. Irritation simmers in your veins when his remark finally registers, and you whirl around, readying your stance. 

"If you even think about threatening me after I explicitly asked you not to, then I would suggest sleeping with a knife tonight."

"Who's threatening who, Twix?" He gives a low chuckle. "Relax. I'm sure I could handle you in my sleep, anyway."

He's egging you on; you know it. And yet, you stubbornly take the bait. His knee— the right one. That's where you got him last time that made him falter. Maybe an old injury. But when you swing a boot at it, he expects your attempt, knocking you away by the ankle. 

"Ah. Eager to get me beneath you again?"

Pink sears your cheeks as you wipe a trickle of sweat from your forehead. "I'm eager to humble you for once."

"Might need to keep your dinner down to do that."

You grit your teeth. So maybe he did allow it last time. The realization darts your eyes to his wide stance, searching for an idea. Without second-guessing yourself, you kick at the other knee. He must find your second attempt amusing because he easily predicts it, but before he can catch your leg, you snap it back and drop yourself to the ground.

The brief distraction allows the second of time needed to fit yourself between his legs. You're slim enough to push through, kicking at the inside of both knees once you're on the other side. His legs buckle, and you reach up to pull his arm, finishing the job.

Once he's down, you scramble to get on top, not caring if your boot kicks his face in the process. You grab both of his wrists and bring them above his head, but it's impossible to wrap your fingers all the way around them. Instead, you lace them through his fingers, breathing hard in his face as your breasts meld against the solid heat of him.

"Did you allow that?" 

His voice is rougher than you've ever heard it. "No."

Your lips furl. "Good."

A dark gleam passes through his dilated pupils that makes your head fuzzy. You let go of his hands. Immediately, they gravitate to your hips again, thumbs fiercely pressing into the sliver of skin exposed from where your shirt rides up. You don't move even an inch, frozen in place as you stare down at where he grips you against him. That feeling in your gut deepens and spreads. It is hard to pinpoint—so insane and foreign yet familiar at the same time—but one thing is certain: it begins and ends where his rough skin touches yours.

Before you can figure anything else out, a scream shatters the air, and Ghost rips you off of him in one swift movement. 

Just a little turned around.

Honestly, it wasn’t as if Y/N was defenceless.

It just so happened that on this one damn day, some asshole had managed to pickpocket her pouch. Not her wallet (that was back at the hotel), not her phone, just her money pouch, which contained the currency of the foreign country she was in. Being prepared and somewhat responsible, Y/N had only put in a day's worth of money into that pouch. In fact, it amazed her how he hadn't gone for her passport or even her phone. No, just the thing that would be most inconvenient for her.

Staring a hole into the ground, she pressed her fingertips to her forehead in an attempt to calm herself down and gather her thoughts. She had chased this slippery bastard all the way to this street where he turned the corner and into a dead end. Then he-, wait.

Y/N straightened up and her eyes darted around frantically. Where was she?

Nothing was familiar. A cafe on the cobbled stone street, a flower shop and a bakery. None of which she had seen before.

Wonderful, now, as well as having no money in a foreign country, she was bloody lost.

“Fuck me dead and sideways till Monday morning.” She huffed, while once again rubbing her forehead with her hand. Honestly, at this point, nothing could particularly get worse.

“That coul’ be arranged!” An accented voice called out from behind her. Scottish perhaps?

“Has a mouth on her.” Another replied in amusement while another voice just grunted in acknowledgement.

Y/N turned around to spit back a witty retort that quickly died on her lips.

“Uh..” She stuttered out intelligently.

Three men, each a prepossessing sight. One was wearing a cap, a blue denim jacket and some black jeans. He was brown eyed and dark skinned, nothing short of a model. His friend was leaning on him, crossed arms, a short mohawk, blue eyes, scruffy looking beard and a cheeky looking smirk. He donned a biker jacket with the small Scottish flag where his breast pocket would be and seemed to be wearing dog tags over his grey t-shirt. The last of them was a hulking man dressed fully in black, his face was obscured with a face mask akin to those of celebrities, however his presence was less of a star and more intimidating. Almost menacing. Maybe he was their bodyguard?

Y/N shook her head and replied,

“Yeah no thanks mate, I’ve got a bit on my plate at the moment, maybe in another life?” She nodded at the three before turning back around and walking towards the coffee shop.

“Oi, Bonnie, we can help ya if ya need. Besides, yer lookin' a bit peely wally.” The man with the mohawk called out.

“What the bloody hell are you on about mate.” Y/N asked, bewildered clearly not understanding the Scottish man's accent.

“ He thinks you look pale.” The large figure behind him rumbled helpfully.

Y/N blinked,

“Is he saying I look sickly?” She turned around and glowered at the man.

“No love, what we mean to say is, you look like you need some help?” The man with the baseball cap stepped forward carefully, as if not to spook her.

“Well, unless you’ve got a tracker dog, a body bag and a large metal pipe, I don't think you’re going to be much help to me.” She crossed her arms defiantly.

“Tha’ can be arranged bonnie.” The mischievous looking man grinned, stepping up while the man behind him followed while giving a non committal grunt.

“I’m Kyle, the annoying one is Johnny and that’s-”

“Simon.” The masked man grumbled while the other two threw a quick look at the third man.

She wrinkled her nose.

“Y/N, pleasure to meet you.” She nodded at the men before sighing, “Alright, I’m here for a holiday, trying to feel out if I wanna move out here for work. I was just takin’ a look around when some asshat came up and fell on me and grabbed my money pouch.” She spoke quickly, somewhat embarrassed that she was admitting to three strangers that she had been duped so easily.

“Ah lovie, unless you remember what he looks like or what he was wearin’ s’ gonna be hard for you to get it back. Do you remember how much you had in there?”

She shrugged, “It was meant to get me lunch and dinner before I checked out of my current hotel to find another one. The rest of the cash is in my hotel room.” She hung her head and sighed.

“Honestly I just need to find my way back and then I can sleep over things. I can skip a meal or two.”

“Gonny no dae that!” Johnny exclaimed, “Yer look like yer already skippin’ meals lass. We’ll take you to lunch and dinner! We got nothin’ ta do anyways!”

The one dressed in all black, Simon was it? Grunted out an agreement.

“You ain't gonna find much around here. You’re not far away from the military base.”

“Whaddya you say love? Let us show you around?” Kyle hummed, cocking his head akin to a begging puppy.

Y/N quirked her lips in thought. Would it be a smart move to let these strangers escort her around? Was she hungry enough to make a questionable decision?

“Well…”

“We’re not strange men, we promise miss.” The taller Brit offered.

“That's exactly what a strange man would say LT.”Johnny quipped, earning a light bonk on the head from the taller man.

Y/N shoulders relaxed when they saw the playful display of banter between the men. Surely this meant they were safe. Right?

family: “why are you just sitting in ur room smiling at ur phone?”

me who’s been reading smut about fictional characters for the past 6 hours:

WE NEED THIS

Soo i just had the courage to see the purge (cause it gives me anxiety hahahha). Now my only thinking is simon being and absolutely protective SO. Like he will be suuper equipped with guns and all that stuff.

Here's my petition, is there any fanfics of simon purge au???? I need to now😭😭😭

THAT'S SO FKN CUTE.

I can relate to that because i have short legs and i always need to jog to keep up with my friends

Being short and taking tiny steps. It's something he never really realized because you always forced yourself to keep up with his longer strides thanks to his superior height, but now as you're going home after a lunch date, he's walking behind you, and nearly bumping into you every few steps.

"You walk so slow," he states after forcing himself to slow down for the tenth time.

"Cuz I'm short. And I don't want to walk fast if I don't have to." You look over your shoulder to look up at him. "You know, you can walk ahead of me? Home isn't going anywhere, I'll meet you there."

Absolutely not. He's not gonna let you walk home alone.

Instead, he says, "I don't want to."

You let out a confused laugh, "What do you mean 'you don't want to'? You were complaining about how slow I am."

"Wasn't complaining." He pauses. "Just observing."

"But you're still rushing to get home," you point out when he almost bumps into you again.

"The game is starting in fifteen."

You roll your eyes. Him and his soccer.

"Then either walk ahead or don't. Or carry me if you're not gonna walk at my pace. I'm don't plan on speeding up, I'm tired of practically jogging just to keep up with you."

Now there's an idea.

"Alright."

"Alright?" You look at him suspiciously. "Alright what?"

"Alright I'll carry you."

Your eyes widen. "Wait-"

He doesn't let you finish, arms coming behind your back and knees, picking you up without any complaints. You squeak out his name, arms coming around his neck. "I-"

"-won't struggle to keep up with me." He shoots you a cocky look, setting a much faster pace. "We'll be home in five."

COD fanfic writer

my fic All Your Ways is on AO3 now

😍❣️

Can't stop thinking about Captain John Price, your good friend's boyfriend, listening to you talk about how you are considering getting a guard dog, and he whole-heartedly agrees with you. John likes you, you're a fantastic friend to his dove and you're sweet, and sweet girls do need protection. So he nods along and tells you he'll look into getting you one, a big one to protect you.

Two weeks later, you're invited to your friend's house, her telling you days before that John might have gotten you a dog, so to prepare! She wasn't sure, he just hinted at it on the phone.

Tell me why, after knocking at your bestie's door, she opens kinda pale and awkward, maybe even a little bit annoyed, inviting you in. Instead of a proper, legit, literal dog, John introduces you to Simon Riley, who stands there awkwardly but tall and intimidating while your friend apologizes, calling her boyfriend an idiot. But John isn't an idiot. For a while now, he thought you'd be perfect for his Lt., this just a funny way to introduce you both. And the only thing that took Simon to agree (after a sharp yet bored no when firstly asked) was to send him a picture of you at a bar, smiling.

Extra:

"So... you come with a leash?" You joke with the tall man, whose eyes wrinkle in amusement. He has been more on the silent side although very atentive, his intense brown eyes on you all evening. Now that you were both alone at the balcony, abandoned by the two love-birds, you tried to ease the tension.

"I don't do leashes but I can pull a spiky collar." He smiles as you giggle. Hell, he felt relief that you did. Even happiness...

"Yeah, it would fit you."

"Yeah?" His voice was low and buttery. "What about a tag with your name on it?" He leans down a little, just enough in your personal bubble, and your stomach flipped. You felt your cheeks warm.

"Can it be heart shaped?" You stare prettily at him and all he can do is to snort to ease the tension.

"However you want it." His reply was quick, eager.

"Deal. But first take me on a proper date."

"Perfect." He smirks.

Up late right now thinking about how secret admirer!Ghost knew he was fucked from the moment he laid his eyes. You were just too warm. From the sweet treats you always had, that softer tone you spoke in off-base, to the way your voice melted his insides. What made it worse was having you as a medic on the team. It’s not like he couldn’t work around you- quite the opposite. He works harder to stay out of your infirmary. But when he does come in, He speaks in grunts and nods, this sent the wrong message and left you to ask Price for a transfer or to stay back on missions. When asked why, you explain how you think you are causing an issue between the team - Price laughs at you. Why? Because he knows that at every chance he gets, Simon has the rest of the 141 give him a checkup on how you are doing. And if something is ever wrong - suddenly a beautiful bouquet of your favorite arraignment of flowers or snacks suddenly ends up at your door with no note. And if somebody is wrong well.. let’s say you get the last laugh helping them fix a broken nose or jaw.

©️moonriseovertokyo 2024. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, or translate any of my works without my permission.

Reposting is allowed just give credit plz! :)